


The Twelve Days of Sherlock

by scarletwas (tealeaf)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-31
Updated: 2010-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealeaf/pseuds/scarletwas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock wakes to the smell of fruit and fowl, he knows that it is the beginning of the end.<br/>(A parody of the Twelve Days of Christmas)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Twelve Days of Sherlock

On the first day, Sherlock sleeps.  
This is a mistake of Sherlock’s, one that he will never admit upon prying or physical torture, yet a mistake it will forever be.  
He wakes to the smell of fruit and fowl.  
“What in the—”  
He squeezes past the pear tree blocking his bedroom doorway and squats down next to it. Recently uprooted. Grown in a private orchard. There is no note.  
There is a faint clucking sound and Sherlock jumps away a second too late.  
The bird stares at him, unblinking.  
Sherlock stands, breathes.  
“_John_!”  
It is December 13th.

-

“Do you really think me the type to send you a pear tree, Sherlock? A pear tree with a bloody partridge clucking about?”  
Sherlock paces the sitting room. He turns to glare at John. John and his bewildered eyes. Damn those eyes. “What purpose would it serve to send me a Pyrus pyraster and a Grey Partridge? No poisons present, no unusual—”   
“Don’t tell me you plucked the bloody bird while I was out.”  
“Focus, John. Focus!” Sherlock falls back on the sofa, exhausted.   
He stays awake long enough to hear the turtle doves cooing.   
It is December 14th.

-

“It’s fucking _freezing _out here. Do you want me to lose my other leg?” John groans.   
“Oh do continue whinging. It brings such enlightenment to the case.” Sherlock shoves his hands inside his coat.  
“_Case_? You think this is a case? It’s a bloody _prank_, Sherlock. Fans of your blog, maybe. Stalkers. You know how those internet-women get.”  
“Not a prank,” Sherlock grumbles.  
A cab swerves, collides with a lamppost. They sprint over to find the driver safe, and sober. He had three passengers.  
Sherlock stares at the cage of hens with berets on their heads.  
It is December 15th.

-

“No one has come to the apartment, John.”  
“No one ever will. Not after you half-murdered the cab driver yesterday for not knowing anything.”  
Sherlock continues to stare at the doorway. “Has it finally stopped?”  
Mrs Hudson peers into the room. “I’m sorry this is a bit late, dear, but a man was selling these adorable little birds for practically nothing. There were only four of them left and I know you’re particularly fond of them lately – why, Sherlock. What’s wrong?”  
John will later assure her that the sobs and oaths were of joy and gratitude.  
It is December 16th.

-

“You know you could get Lestrade to help you with this.” John wears four gloves today. None of them are his.  
“Holiday,” he murmurs.  
John scoffs. “’m surprised you didn’t… You broke into his apartment, didn’t you?”  
“He wasn’t there.”  
They wait in companionable silence for half an hour before John gives up and shivers his way inside.  
The door clicks shut. Shelock’s phone rings.  
When he answers, the line goes dead.  
It rings again, and he waits. ‘Five rings,’ he thinks.  
He calls back.  
“This is the Golden Palace restaurant. How may I help—”  
It is December 17th. 

-

Sherlock wakes up three hours before dawn and stations himself behind the front door.  
One minute and someone will open the bloody door and shove in six bleeding geese with eggs shoved up their--  
The sitting room window slams shut. Sherlock knows he never opened it.  
When John stumbles inside the room, Mrs Hudson is handing him a cup of steaming hot cocoa.  
Sherlock tugs at his hair. “One goose? Just one? But I don’t—”  
John wishes for a camera to capture the moment when Sherlock finds a number six painted on the goose’s beak.  
It is December 18th.

-

John finds Sherlock swimming in the sitting room.  
The inflatable pool hardly fits, but is large enough for Sherlock to tumble around in while chasing after swans. He has caught one, and is now in the process of combing through its plumage.  
“Has to be a clue. Has to be,” he murmurs.  
“You do know it’s three fucking a.m., do you? Or has that hard-drive of yours gone to the birds as well?”  
“Ha-bloody-ha. I’ll solve this mystery yet.” A cry of discovery.  
John points out that it’s a soggy piece of bread, and Sherlock slumps.   
It is December 19th.

-

“You’ve gone soft, haven’t you?” John chuckles at him from across the sitting room. It is not the safest distance to be taunting Sherlock from, but it is enough.  
“I’m merely distracted.” He looks away, brows furrowed.  
“By what? Your bird collection?”  
As if on cue, the two turtle doves coo happily.  
Sherlock waits by the window, eyes keen and flashing dangerously. He isn’t disappointed.  
A group of pregnant women walk past, chattering gaily, babes in their arms.  
John races after Sherlock and catches up to him before he gets arrested for sexual harassment and assault.  
It is December 20th.

-

He decides that sleeping is for the weak, and quits it entirely.  
“You’ve got a call, Sherlock.”  
“I don’t—”John shoves it to his ear.  
He is about to toss the phone away when he hears a voice that sends a thrill of fear down his spine.  
“Hello, mummy.” He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose.  
“Yes, mummy. I’m off to bed.” He gives John a look he reserves for the lowest of criminals.  
John isn’t looking at him, but at the sitting room window.  
A poster of dancing women is taped to the glass.  
It is December 21st.

-

Today they decide to go for a walk. It isn’t a decision made by both parties, but is one that was foisted upon by the other, with a threat concerning missing skulls and heads.  
Sherlock stops a few feet from the park, his face blank and frozen.  
Little boys with paper crowns on their heads jump from a wall into a pile of snow.  
It is not enough that John physically drags him back home, but he is treated to a fierce lecture by Mrs. Hudson on why children aren’t to be frightened and screamed at.  
It is December 22nd.

-

“It’s the weather, John. Cold weather significantly affects my thought process.”  
“Of course it does. It can’t possibly be—”  
“I am perfectly sane, thank you. You may cease commenting on my mental state.”  
“It’s not that.”  
“Then what?”  
John sighs. “Don’t you ever think of what it all means?”  
“Are you referring to questions of existential nature—”  
“Fuck,” John breathed. “You know the song, yeah?”  
Sherlock tilts his head.  
_“Think it over, Sherlock_.” John rubs a palm across his forehead.  
A modest hour passes before a gang of teenagers park outside the apartment, smoking.  
It is December 23rd.

-

Sherlock sleeps, today, and it is not a mistake anymore. He wakes to silence.  
John is waiting for him in the sitting room, wearing a new sweater.  
He walks up to Sherlock, takes a deep breath. Then he snakes his hand around his neck and pulls him down for a soft kiss. One of them tastes of cinnamon.  
When John steps back, his hands aren’t shaking. “You know what it all means now?”  
Sherlock’s forehead creases.  
John sighs. “I thought so.”  
A marching band thunders down the street. Curiously, nothing else is heard but the percussion.  
It is December 24th.

-

An hour after midnight, John slinks away from the apartment. It has been a few hours since Sherlock collapsed to his bed, half-murmurs of ‘I’ll get him’ still ringing in the air.  
John slides in the limousine parked by the corner and smiles.  
“Reckon he’ll get it?” Lestrade hands him a bottle of chilled beer.  
John shakes his head. “He’s an idiot.”  
“He’ll figure it out sooner or later, John,” drawls Mycroft.  
He shrugs, then raises his bottle.  
“Happy Christmas, Mycroft, Lestrade.”  
“Happy Christmas,” they reply.  
They clink their bottles and take a long, satisfying pull.  
It is December 25th.


End file.
